Depressing Alternate End
by Cazrolime
Summary: AU. The Quest balances upon the edge of a knife, and so many things could go wrong... Warning: ROTK spoiler. Sort of. Complete... at least, unless I think of another chapter... I may or may not write about the Shire... dun dun dun!
1. The End of all Things

There he lay, cast upon the ground like a dead thing among the steaming vents of the volcano. Sam gave a cry and ran to his master's side.  
  
Frodo was pale as a ghost, shivering and cold as ice yet drenched in a sweat. Sam tried to wake him, shaking him, rubbing his hands, calling his name. "Frodo! Master Frodo! Oh, don't leave me here, not now, not after –"  
  
Frodo stirred slightly. His eyes opened a crack, and Sam's heart leapt, but Frodo just stared unseeingly. Sam laid an arm about his master's freezing shoulders, and tried to help him up. "It's all right, you're safe now. Your Sam's here."  
  
He knew it was a lie. How long would they be allowed to stay there undiscovered?  
  
Frodo's feverish eyes rolled onto Sam's face. They flickered there a moment, clouded and unfocused, then slowly recognition dawned. "S...Sam?" Frodo's voice was parched, almost a death rattle. Sam felt a pang of joy and sorrow and threw his arms around Frodo. "I'm here for you, Mr. Frodo."  
  
"I ... I don't think I can make it up." Frodo said distractedly. His breathing was shallow and uneven. "I'm ... sorry ..."  
  
"But we've been up." Tears carved deep tracks down Sam's cheeks. He tried to help Frodo stand. "Up and back down. We should find somewhere safer, Mr. Frodo." But he stopped. Where could they go? Only the elves could escape, if even the Sea was wide enough to keep the Shadow out.  
  
"Let's at least get off this foul mountain," he said. And away from that cave, he added silently, trying and failing to block the memory. He shuddered. Frodo nodded and tried to get up, but stumbled, falling beside one of the deep rents torn into the mountain. "Be careful, Mr. Frodo," Sam warned. "Some of these craters look deep enough as to swallow an oliphaunt."  
  
As if on impulse, Frodo leaned over to look into the rent. Sam did so too.  
  
Far below, almost obscured by belching smog and ash, was a small, broken body.  
  
"He attacked me, Mr. Frodo," Sam explained, "while you was going that last mile. Leapt on me - but he must have misjudged it: went straight down. I was hard put not to fall myself."  
  
Frodo just stared at the sad form, spreadeagled on the rocks. "Sméagol?"  
  
Like an arrow from a bow Frodo shot upright. "It's gone!" he cried fearfully. "Where is it?" He rooted through his pockets, dropped to his knees and frantically scoured the ground.  
  
Sam stared sadly at his master. "It's gone," he said, and a heavy weight seemed to settle on him as if his own words brought home to him their plight. "That filthy flying Rider must have taken it."  
  
Frodo tensed. He looked up at Sam, crouched like a coiled snake, suspicion written all over his face. "He's got it," he muttered. He stood shakily, hand outstretched to receive.  
  
"You've done it again, haven't you," Frodo said quietly. His voice caught in his throat. "Like at that foul tower. Well done and all that, now give it to me."  
  
Sam shook his head. "The Enemy will have it by now," he said hopelessly. "I never took it! I just came into that cave, and you – you were –"  
  
Frodo wasn't listening. "Very well," he said, withdrawing his hand. "Very well, if you won't give it to me, I will take it." Like a striking snake he flew at Sam, clawing, biting, with every weapon he possessed. Sam stumbled backwards. Frodo kept coming. On the very brink of the chasm that had claimed Gollum the two figures fought. One attacking, one defending.  
  
The mountain rumbled, and great jets of steam and liquid rock erupted from the vents and crown. Sam froze, looking first at the lava, then at Frodo, who had stopped his onslaught, and was staring at him. Frodo looked in horror at the deep scratches all over Sam, and down at his own bloody hands. Tears were running down his cheeks. He started towards Sam, stumbling as the mountain roared and writhed in triumph, but there was no hostility in his face. Frodo was saying something, barely to be heard above the tumult.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sam."  
  
The burning lava swept down and engulfed them, two tiny figures in an endless ocean of fire and dark. 


	2. The Black Gate Opens

The sun was rising over the field of the Dagorlad – but it was a sullen, dark red sun, obscured by the choking smog of Mordor and bringing no joy to the hearts of the armies under Elessar's banner.

Gandalf stood his ground, not lowering his staff. Pippin gripped his sword, a strange expression on his face. Men and elves stood ready, weapons drawn, bows strung. Aragorn's face was unreadable.

The Black Gate opened.

Hundreds upon thousands of numbers uncountable swarmed forth in a great black flood, and the Unblinking Eye burned red on every banner. Drums were beaten, and greedy flames roared into life; smothering dust rose, and mocking shrieks were flung across the field at the armies of the West. A harsh wind blew up, whipping the dust into unearthly shapes. Arrows screamed to and fro; steel clashed on steel.

Then out of the smog and murk came a fell shrieking that sent frozen spears into every heart.

The Nazgûl had come.

Pippin gasped in fear as the dark shapes wheeled out of the air, almost dropping his sword from numb fingers. He wished Merry was there.

He pulled himself up, only to have to duck again hurriedly as a massive hill-troll swung its hammer in a deadly circle. It caught Beregond a sickening blow to the side of his head, sending him crumpling to the ground, and the troll lowered its fanged jaws to the man's throat.

Desperately, Pippin stabbed upwards, into the troll's gut. The blade of Westernesse sank deep into the scaly hide, sending vile, stinking black blood oozing down. The troll swayed and, almost in slow motion, collapsed onto the small hobbit.

Pippin felt a great crushing pain, followed by a kind of peace – almost happiness, to be leaving cares and hurts far behind. As the darkness closed over his head, he thought he heard a joyful cry. "The Eagles –"

But it was almost immediately cut off, one more scream in a multitude, and Pippin supposed he must have imagined it as he closed his eyes to a bright shore.

* * *

The fighting had forced Aragorn and Gandalf practically back-to-back, a two-man island in a sea of enemies.

A cry rang out across the battlefield, and Aragorn glanced up to see a flock of Eagles winging their way towards the fighting. But as quickly as hope flared wildly inside him it failed, as the Nazgûl brought their mounts around to rake them with claws and teeth like knives –

A deafening silence spread across the battlefield.

Orodruin had erupted.

And, rising from Barad-dûr in a great shadow, seeming to suck the light and hope from all around, soared a dark figure crowned with lightening. The very earth shook violently, and the shadow filled the sky, dragging the very warmth from the air.

Aragorn felt the breath catch in his throat, and a chill in his chest. He turned to Gandalf. "What does this mean?" he asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer.

Aragorn had never really pondered Gandalf's age, though he knew he must have many years behind him – but now the wizard looked old; old and tired. He was looking up at the Shadow, his eyes suddenly devoid of their usual sparkle, and Aragorn realised with a shock that the ancient wizard was really afraid.

At last Gandalf replied, his voice hollow.

"It means we have failed."


	3. Minas Tirith

Minas Tirith burned anew.

Countless hosts of Orcs and evil Men had swarmed form the East, wiping out the last forces at Cair Andros and moving swiftly on to the now near-defenceless White City, putting flame to all they passed. Faramir had mustered what forces he could, but all were very young, very old or wounded. It was barely a company that had manned a final desperate defence against the hordes of Mordor.

Faramir's head had landed in the garden of the Houses of Healing, where it had been found by the Lady Éowyn. She had carried it to her room, from whence none could persuade her to come.

Merry missed Pippin. He missed his friends. He missed long summer evenings under the Party Tree, eating, talking at their ease, laughing at some jest.

'I hope we shall see each other again,' he thought gloomily, crouching amongst the rubble that had once been a fair house. 'But I doubt – I doubt it will be in this life.' Slipping out and running bent-backed in the cover of a low wall, he could hear the jeers of the armies of Mordor, the clash of steel, and the screams.

Always, the screams.

He clutched one hand to his side, feeling his fingers itch as a new wound leaked through them. In the other he wielded a stolen orc-knife.

So far as Merry could see, he was living on borrowed time: he could merely stall, for now, the moment when he – like the blameless citizens of Minas Tirith – would be killed. But somehow he could not stand the thought of dying alone, ambushed from behind some ruin or crushed by oblivious toppling rubble.

So it was that he made his way to the Houses of Healing.

But the gardens, when he reached them, had been hacked and burned; the houses themselves were crumbled in places and daubed with foul graffiti and the symbol of the Eye. Merry stared up in sorrow at the once-fair house: the gleaming walls soiled and broken; the gardens that had striven to bear fruit even under the Shadow now slashed down and trampled, their soil trodden to viscous mud by the tread of many hobnailed boots.

He hurried inside.

The door of the room that had been Éowyn's was pulled clean from its hinges, and lay smashed and defaced on the muddied floor. Éowyn herself lay half-off the bed, one arm still cradled protectively about the remains of the head of Faramir. Her clothes were torn and bloodied, her exposed body bruised, and her face mutilated almost beyond recognition. The bed had been hacked and the curtains slashed.

They were all gone, Merry realised. Pippin was gone. Sam and Frodo were gone. Gandalf. Théoden. Aragorn. Éowyn. Sauron's claw would reach out – and even the Shire, the good green Shire, would be engulfed…

.-.

Checking the room, the Southron deemed the small figure stooped over the corpse of the woman to be no threat. As he entered, making no effort to muffle his crackling footsteps on the scree, the creature heard him and turned.

He judged it at first to be a child, but as he looked closer he saw that the face looked old, old as one who has seen many terrible things and had to grow up far too fast. And its eyes seemed cold and darkened, as if something had died inside whilst the body lingered on. He cut it down, for those were his orders.


End file.
